COCAINE

 

On a nice sunny Nairobi morning, I was sifting through my two-hundred-plus incoming emails. A good chunk of them just copied me. Correspondents want to lend weight to their messages, keep me informed, or have a hundred other reasons.

 

Over the years, I’ve honed my skills to spot important messages within the monstrous bulk of network exchanges. However, this led to an unintended consequence: I rarely managed to read the second line, which often caused me considerable embarrassment…

 

Nevertheless, I soon noticed something remarkable. The email originated from the very top of our large company. It indicated that The Times, a UK-based magazine, was about to publish an article implicating us in a cocaine shipment from Brazil to Kenya.

 

Jesus Christ! What on earth could we possibly have to do with it? Well, there was a reason, even if it was a flimsy one.

 

We had a contract with the Kenyan government to physically inspect consignments at the origin and certify their compliance with Kenyan standards. I was responsible for carrying out this contract and was therefore one of the recipients.

 

True, we did inspect a consignment of 32 containers of raw sugar bound for Uganda. Unbeknownst to us, gangsters had planted a whopping 174 kilos of cocaine in one of those containers. That’s where the Odyssey began.

 

As it turned out, an international police task force had been tracking this parcel from day one. The container with valuables—plus three more to distract attention—was delivered to Valencia, Spain, where it was unloaded. The local police planned to seize them the next morning. Well, we were dealing with a highly sophisticated cartel with their molls everywhere, including law enforcement. The mob caught wind of the impending seizure and, with the help of the world's largest shipping line (yes, them), managed to reload the containers onto the vessel, issue all the paperwork (an impressive feat in itself!), and send the crack off to Oman. To cover up their tracks, they transshipped it twice (!) and eventually loaded it onto a vessel bound for Mombasa, Kenya. From Mombasa, it was supposed to travel by railroad to Kampala, Uganda, along with the rest of the consignment.

 

As you’ve probably guessed, the drug cops in Mombasa patiently awaited the delivery. They quickly opened the very container, took photos, seized the cocaine, and proceeded with their routine.

 

If you think it’s over, wait. From this point on, events began to turn into a farce.

 

The unsuspecting consignee of the long-awaited shipment of raw sugar was the Managing Director of a UK-based international sugar trading company. He managed both Ugandan and Kenyan operations. Sugar in Kenya is a precious commodity, bringing in hefty profits, highly sought after by the trade, and thus heavily politicised. You can probably guess he had more than one competitor, and not everyone was on the right side of the law. About a third of the sugar in Kenya was smuggled.

 

The MD's name was Jack, a young, subtly looking Scottish descendant of white settlers, born and raised in Kenya, with a notable pedigree (6th Baron of XXX). People like him are nicknamed “KC,” short for Kenyan Cowboys. They drive heavy-duty off-road vehicles, fly small planes, ride motorcycles through Nairobi’s murderous traffic, and handle weapons expertly.

 

In a classic Kenyan fashion (“punish the innocent, reward the uninvolved”), local law enforcement promptly arrested Jack and put him behind bars without consulting the narcotics task force. His company’s trade license was revoked (see above for explanations). The case was profusely published in local media.

 

Meanwhile, a third line of the plot was unfolding on our company's premises.

 

According to our mandate, we were not obliged to be present when containers were loaded onto the vessel or even during their stuffing and sealing. In other words, we wouldn’t have been there when the gangsters planted the crack—if they were foolish enough to do it during container loading, which they weren’t.

 

However, perception trumps facts. “Weren’t you the inspection company? Then you authorised this shipment!” All legalities were conveniently ignored. And that was The Times, rumoured to have some royal connections.

 

It struck me hard when I saw Jack’s call on my phone. He asked me to meet his lawyer and explain the verification process to him. By that time, Jack was blissfully out of cell range, on bail, mountaineering. I agreed on the condition of anonymity.

 

I met the attorney, a middle-aged Indian gentleman who had worked for Jack’s father and knew a great many things and people. I gave him a thorough overview of the process and a lot of insight.

 

I was most generously rewarded. I had the chance to gather some critical information. Most notably, one of our competitors attended the stuffing and sealed the containers. The inspection report has been duly issued.

 

And you know what? Inside the notorious container, the police had found a replacement seal belonging to that very company. Apparently, the plan was to use this seal after the container was opened and the crack removed. When the container door was closed again, that seal would be attached, never mind the discrepancy in the seal number.

 

Wow! This was rock-solid proof of our innocence. As odd as it seemed, though, I merely registered it and proceeded with my daily routine. The precious piece of info was to act later in the play.

 

Then came judgment day. On a Friday morning, we received a call from that paper stating we had until lunchtime to say something in our defence. The article was scheduled to come out the next morning and would likely be a disaster for us.

 

Each of my two bosses (matrix structure for you) received instructions from their own boss (surprise, surprise! - the same person) to draft their responses. However, the two were not on speaking terms. As for me? I knew nothing of the order. I was completely unaware of the storm clouds gathering over my head.

 

On that fateful day, I had a fever, and all I wanted to do was stay in bed. Alas, my wish was not to be granted.

 

My HQ boss's instructions were to write the draft now and not show it to my local boss (let’s call him Tim) until we had polished it. Tim was my managing director for a minute. Big boss, that is. Honestly, he was not the sharpest tool in the shed, to say the least. His phenomenal survival skills, and certainly not his disastrous performance, were the sole reason for his remarkable corporate longevity.

 

I was assigned by HQ and reported only to them operationally, but that didn’t stop Tim from exercising his full authority whenever he saw fit. Earlier in his career, Tim spent several years at HQ, supervising me, among other things. Still, he knew precious little about the business and even less about why we were implicated (see previous para).

 

I set about drafting an ingenious reply, drawing on my invaluable knowledge of the inspection our competitors had carried out. I obtained a confidential copy of the inspection report with the seal numbers, including the tiny seal found by the cops on that unfortunate container with the cocaine.

 

There had never been an issue of releasing the (confidential!) report to me. Kenya is a very casual place…

 

In my draft, I also provided a link to a 40-minute video posted by US Customs that explains in great detail how one can manipulate container seals, leaving little or no sign of tampering.

 

I did not have to do that…

 

I wish I had seen the photos of the container earlier. The mob was not too sophisticated, to put it mildly. They merely cut the axis of the container doors, removed the doors, put the stuff into the container, placed the doors back, and most crudely welded them back to the axis. They didn’t even bother to paint over their shoddy work! The abuse was so glaringly obvious, as if they invited customs to look inside.

 

Eventually, I sent my essay to HQ, extremely pleased with myself. It was almost 2 pm, and I was on my last legs. At that moment, I received a call from Tim.

 

I walked to his office, informed him the job was completed, and was about to leave peacefully when he asked me to forward him a copy of my essay. Starting from here, another round of this vaudeville started unfolding.

 

I innocently mentioned that I might have one too many bosses, as one had already instructed me to keep my composition to myself.

 

Man! Never ever have I seen him so profoundly upset. His voice trembled; his hands shook. He promptly promised to report me to the highest authorities for “concealing” my meeting with the lawyer. He reminded me of the reporting lines, etc. Apparently, I had hit his most vulnerable spot.

 

Fortunately, I had a twenty-plus-year relationship with him, including six years working together in Kenya. I had built quite a reputation with him. We were virtually friends (despite…). Even such a dramatic incident would not alter that. I managed to calm him down, or so I thought, sent him a copy of my report, made sure he received it, and only then proceeded to my long-sought-after bed.

 

At about 6 pm, my HQ boss called to ask what was wrong with Tim. Why? Well, with friends like that, you don’t need an enemy. As it turned out, he had circulated a message to just about every concerned member of the executive board regarding my “misdeed” (i.e., failing to report my meeting with the lawyer). Most interestingly, he chose not to copy me on this message.

 

All’s well that ends well. My version of the answer was sent to the paper by my HQ boss. The article was never published.

 

PS. About two weeks later, out of the blue, on a Sunday morning, Tim invited me to a brunch with his friends. I knew nobody in his circle. They offered me zero to negative interest, and on top of that, I was on my way to the airport. But I duly attended. To his last day, Tim believed I was unaware of his email, and I’ve never tarnished his belief.